


Twentyfirst

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock flares his nostrils in contempt as the pain gives way to revulsion. He doesn't like being touched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twentyfirst

Sherlock has no idea how long he's been cuffed to the pipe. His arms are stretched above his head and the metal of the cuffs scrape his bony wrists. They are chafed and bleeding. His feet barely touch the ground; he has to stand on tiptoe, balancing his weight carefully. Otherwise he'll start to sway and then his whole weight will be supported by his arms and shoulders only. Painful.

Sherlock has lost track of time. A man is yelling at him while hitting him with a wire. Sherlock's shirt has ripped in some places were the copper cord clung especially severe, tearing open fabric and flesh alike. The dramatic impression of a medieval torture scene is enhanced by the dark red bloodstains blooming on Sherlock's formerly crisp white dress shirt.

The man flogging Sherlock wants to know the whereabouts of a famous precious stone. Dull! But even if his methods are quite unimaginative, Sherlock has to concede they are very effectively inflicting pain. His shoulders burn and the cuts to his body smart like hell.

“So, you are playing hard to get, Mr. Holmes. Or may I call you Sherlock?”

Sherlock has trouble blinking the man into focus, as he has to concentrate on breathing evenly. He's called James Ryder and is involved in stealing some priceless jewellery. But he's somehow lost his bounty and now takes his frustration out on Sherlock, whom he correctly suspects to withhold his booty.

Ryder is a short bald man man with a weak retreating chin and Sherlock will be damned if he backs down but Ryder also has a distinctive sadistic streak to his personality, which might help overcome Sherlock's reservations rather sooner than later. He's not sure how much more whipping he might be able to endure.

“I really don't care.” Sherlock's speech slurs slightly but otherwise he sounds blasé and bored beyond belief. This man is no match to him, he's just a desperate brute, not a brilliant criminal mastermind like Jim Moriarty but that doesn't make him less lethal. In fact, desperate men are easily driven to desperate measures, which makes them unpredictably dangerous.

“So, Sherlock then.” Ryder stands close. Sherlock's mind reels to come up with a plan to escape.

The next thing Sherlock knows, Ryder's hand brushes through his sweaty curls, stroking them back a few times before grabbing a fistful, yanking hard. “Pay attention, will you!”

Sherlock flares his nostrils in contempt as the pain gives way to revulsion. He doesn't like being touched.

“Then keep me intrigued", Sherlock snarls.

“Oh, am I boring you already? I'm so sorry.” His grip in Sherlock's hair tightens, while the fingers of his other hand stroke Sherlock's cheekbone, then brush over his split lower lip. Sherlock shudders in disgust.

“Mmm, so sensitive and delicate.” Ryder's hand moves lower, until his palm lingers over Sherlock's adams apple while his fingers span his throat, thumb and middle finger resting over the carotid on either side. Sherlock instantly knows what's coming and being helpless to prevent it only adds to his humiliation. 

It's irritating when Ryder presses down onto Sherlock's larynx. The man smiles a cold smile as he watches Sherlock squirm and choke uncontrollably for at least two minutes. These movements result in his feet shiftlessly pawing the concrete floor to gain leverage, the scraping of his soles the only sounds in the room apart from the low retching noises emanating from Sherlock's suffocating body fighting for oxygen. But just before Sherlock blacks out, Ryder loosens his fingers slightly. Sherlock's lungs scream and his chest heaves as he sucks in gulps of air as long as he's allowed to do, until he feels dizzy. His head pounds and black spots dance before his eyes.

“You are aware that some people find this kind of treatment rather stimulating?” Ryder's so close that his breath fans over Sherlock's face.

“Is that so?” Sherlock croaks, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. “On the giving or the receiving side?”

“Oh, it's best when it's mutual, don't you think, Sherlock?”

The fingers tighten again.

“You can just tell me, you know. Just tell me and this will all be over.” Ryder cocks his head. He has to look up at his victim and the sickening smile on his face widens as Sherlock's eyeballs literally protrude from their sockets. His normally pale face is blotchy red, the sharp angular features contorted.

Sherlock's body starts cramping and spasming. It won't take long now...

Suddenly, the pressure recedes again.

“I could do this for hours,” his tormentor sighs dreamily. “How about you?” The hand around his throat moves downwards, almost caressing, fingers tenderly spreading over Sherlock's clavicle and chest. “So tense”, the man murmurs and Sherlock feels bile rise in his throat while he greedily sucks in air.

The hand in his hair comes around and cups his face, pushing Sherlock's chin up a little bit; he starts blinking fast.

“I could do anything I want to you right now.” Ryder's face is so close that Sherlock notices the blackheads on his nose and the spot of stubble beneath his ear where he forgot to shave. 

As the hand on his left shoulder pushes inside his collar, squeezing his sweat slick skin, Sherlock gathers what saliva is left in his dry mouth and spits the man in the face.  
It's an exhilarating experience to see his menace wipe his face in surprised disgust, even if Sherlock knows it will be short lived.

“You shouldn't have done that, you really shouldn't.” The next time fingers close around his throat, they are not removed until Sherlock's body dangles limply and unconscious from the metal pipe.

 

He comes round lying on the cold concrete floor. His head hurts like hell, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burn and prickle as circulation sets in again and his throat aches as he tries to swallow. 

His hands are now cuffed in front of him. Sherlock smiles. Always a mistake. God, he hates amateurs!

“What's so funny about?” Ryder's still with him. The man emerges from the shadows and steps right in front of Sherlock, his shoes level with Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock actually tries to answer but the rasping sounds escaping his mouth are unintelligible. 

“Struck dumb, smart-ass? Perhaps this will get you going again.” Ryder kicks him in the vicinity of his left kidney so hard Sherlock's sure he'll be pissing blood for the next few days. He instinctively coils in on himself as all air is knocked from his lungs. The next kick hits his head, as he is too slow to cover it due to his bound arms. He's not sure if his malar bone is fractured, but it's quite possible. The man above him is obviously really angry and rapidly loosing it, if the increasingly weird profanities and accusations he yells while randomly kicking the broken body on the floor are anything to go by. 

Sherlock coughs up blood and tries to creep away from the raging bastard, literally crawling over the floor on his elbows, until his hair is jerked again, this time bringing Sherlock up in a kneeling position. He swoons slightly, breathing heavily. He has no idea what's coming next. The skin on his face is pulled so tight he's unable to blink.

Ryder stands behind him and hisses: “One last time: Where is the fucking stone. I'll rip your balls off and stuff them in your posh little mouth if you don't tell me right now!”

Sherlock spits blood on the ground and tries to form words, mumbling incoherently, then indicates for the man to bow down over his right shoulder.

Idiot! Imbecile! Moron! Never, never do that with someone schooled in Jiu Jitsu. Ryder will learn that within the next three seconds. It will take a long time, though, until he'll be able to put his new found knowledge to good use again.

Sherlock hooks his cuffed wrists over the back of Ryder's neck, then hurls him over his shoulder. The man crashes to the ground, too surprised to brace his fall and then Sherlock is above him, closing his fingers around the man's throat, his battered face displaying an eerie grin as he feeds the fucker his own medicine.

Suddenly there's a deafening blast, followed by shouting and light and people, loads of people, some in uniforms - blue for police, bright orange for paramedics and some in white overalls - all crowding the place and it's all a bit too much. Someone grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and pulls him up and away. He might actually be howling when his fingers are forced to leave Ryder's neck, for the piece of shit is still moving and breathing, if only barely.

Then a blanket is thrown over Sherlock's shoulders and this time, he doesn't mind or put up resistance, not even when a young WPC guides him out of the basement and pushes a cup of hot tea in his shaking, still cuffed hands. She says something to him he doesn't get but suddenly there's John standing in front of him. The look on his face gives Sherlock some idea of how bad things are.

“God, Sherlock, you all right?” It's quiet obvious he isn't when he rests his forehead against John's and whispers: “Get me away from here. Get me home.”


End file.
